


in the still of the night

by bleakmidwinter



Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Blore has a lot of regret and he's horrible, Canon Compliant, Cocaine, Dancing, Drug Use, Drugs, Explicit Sexual Content, Getting high, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, I'm telling you this is dark shit and not for the faint of heart, Implied Claythorne/Lombard, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Makeshift Lube, Read at your own precaution, Seriously Blore is really homophobic and this can be a lot for people be careful, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 22:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14923704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleakmidwinter/pseuds/bleakmidwinter
Summary: Following the night the guests at Mr. and Mrs. Owen's residence got high and drunk together, Armstrong and Blore decide to give in to their own desires just as much as Lombard and Claythorne.





	in the still of the night

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Please read the tags

William Blore, an upstanding officer in his piously driven society, is not a queer. He made this decision when he was a young lad, first developing the taste for a specific kind of satisfaction. It was never sated by the curvy figured women, blonde curls bouncing at their shoulders, who wandered in and out of his bedroom over the years at his own accord, and as he aged, he felt nothing more than a twinge of pleasure at being socially acceptable to colleagues and surrounding socialites.

 

Perhaps he did feel physically ill after entertaining the occasional, rather dim-witted, femininity, but he thought there must have be something wrong with his internal bodily functions, or perhaps it was the women, yes the women. They were the bloody problem, it wasn’t him.

 

It _isn’t_ him.

 

And though a prestigious man among imbeciles, a secretary, a war “hero,” and a doctor with shaky hands, Blore still falls in fortune of the night’s finer delights, allowing himself to be driven up the walls with white powder and droned out of his mind by suckling the alcohol from the rims of glass bottles.

 

Blore avoids getting drunk, let alone high off his rocker, most of the time. In fact, he’s never done it unless he’s at home alone, the doors and windows securely locked, no way of simple escape unless he were sober. His inhibitions, his structure, fades away with these poisons. He cannot explain the fear of exposing his secrets. He might reveal his inward desires, of course they are nothing so terribly wrong, but he might lie, and say he has the lust for a strongly structured male figure to whisk him away into the night and have his way with him. Just once. Yes, he could lie about that, because unfortunately he’s thought about it before, and just one thought could ruin a man.

 

But, on this island, where there is no contact with the outer world and all that can be heard is music, and that damn record playing over and over-- _You are charged with the following indictments, you are charged with the following indictments, you are charged with the following_ \--it felt damn well good to let go.

 

And he did. He _does let go_. Blore indulges like he’s never done, and drinks to his his heart’s content, and suffocates in the wildly intoxicating powder that he chooses to rub on his gums at first before giving in to sniffing it like a rabid dog. Armstrong is beside him the whole time, screaming about bones, and skulls, and flesh. It’s a shrill noise added to the racket in his head from the drugs. Guts, bones, bodies, so many fucking bodies, and Armstrong isn’t shutting up. Blore thinks of a few ways to shut his mouth, a few vile and simultaneously enticing ways.

 

Eventually, he finds himself laughing, screeching almost like a dying bird. Suddenly everything is just really fucking funny. Hilarious, even. Armstrong grabs him by the arms and drags him to the middle of the floor and begins swinging him back and forth. For a moment he believes Armstrong is going to throw him in the fireplace, but when he sees Claythorne and Lombard dancing, he connects the dots, and grips tightly onto Armstrong, laughing as they move. He feels elated, and doesn’t want to stop spinning, despite the nausea lapping at his senses.

 

The queerness of the act is lost to him while he’s riding high on cocaine. He feels as if he could vomit right now, being tossed around like a ragdoll, limp for the eager and twitchy hands of Edward Armstrong, but he’s so sated, albeit utterly debauched, he can’t give a damn.

 

This moment lasts on a loop like a scratched record, and somehow he's got a hat on, how the hell did that get there? Lombard and Claythorne are scraping their faces together, similar to parasites trying to leech warmth and lust off of each other, as if they didn’t have enough of that to begin with, already rubbing dry against each other like dicey teenagers.

 

Blore suddenly feels something bump into his own chest and he snaps his head forward to see Armstrong has pulled him flush against himself, and he has no option other than to grip tightly to his rounded shoulders, and hope he doesn’t fall. The Doctor’s eyes are wildly fixed on the couple just behind them, watching their movements like a crazed hawk. Really, he’s too paranoid, or that’s what Blore’s bubbling brain is telling him. Perhaps he’d be smarter if he were to get worried as well.

 

To hell with it.

 

He feels himself drifting in and out of consciousness, pinpricks tingling up and down his spine keeping him energetic enough not to pass out, but not being enough of a pickup to respond to this act they are committing. Though, he’s thankful for Armstrong supporting his weight because he’s sure he’d be unable to on his own.

 

Armstrong’s words are a blur when their movements grow even slower and Blore can feel himself being pressed into this man like a blanket, and everything suddenly feels too hot, he’s sweating, and he can’t breathe.

 

He tries mumbling, but his lips are tacky and sticking together and he's more focused on the sweat curling his hair, and the droning ringing in his ears.

 

“It's them. Mr. And Mrs. Owen--” is what Blore makes out of Armstrong’s rambling. His brain is too fried to connect the dots and he follows the Doctor’s gaze to see Claythorne and Lombard intimately close. No, it's not them, it couldn't be, does there have to be a murderer? Perhaps they can all just relax and pretend-- the intimacy of Claythorne and Lombard’s sensual dance suddenly rains clear in Blore’s mind and he's instinctively shoving at Armstrong and attempting to remove himself from the man’s strong gasp. _Bastard._

 

How could this bugger embarrass him this way? Does he think Blore a fool?

 

He's not a fruit. Damn Armstrong for forcing him into such a vile act. Blore has half a mind to frame him, perhaps just arrest him under the feeble cause of suspicion. But, when he sees Armstrong standing still, so idly focused on the other couple, he weakens, and gives in to his headache rather than his outrage.

 

Let the man keep bein’ off his rocker then.

 

Blore stumbles away towards the dark hall, and the others soon follow suit. The undead is an accurate description for the way they swerve up the stairs and file into their rooms like cattle.  Armstrong is staring at him, but Blore shoves down any and all desire to give in to the intensity of the gaze. He sees Lombard glaring at Claythorne in a similar fashion, and almost feels a twinge of jealousy that it’s normal for them, and that they can indulge fully, and Blore is compelled to turn away and disappear into his own room, leaving the Doctor in the dust.

 

Not for long, though, it seems there is a knock at his door a minute or so later, and when Blore opens it, Armstrong is waiting. Blore backs up, cautiously, but Armstrong seems to take this as an invitation to enter, which he does, closing the door behind him. Thunder strikes and it feels as if the house is shaking when Armstrong turns back around, his pupils wide, eyes black.

 

He takes a few steps forward, before grabbing at Blore’s shoulders, arms, and dragging him forward. Blore makes a noise between a protest and a pleasured gasp. Armstrong kisses him then, tasting of booze, and his lips are attacking him too strongly, teeth nicking at the corners of his mouth, and Blore lets out a strangled groan, pain and panic washing over him.

 

But, fuck, he wants it. He’s going to hell for this.

 

He pushes the drunk Doctor off of him, and the man stares at him, realizing somewhat he might have come on too strong. Blore is trembling and he’s fighting every urge not to go running into his arms again and just let himself _feel_ something.

 

But, he doesn’t have an excuse, does he? He can’t just commit this act of sodomy without a reason beyond his control, and with that coked feeling returning to his head, he remembers he’s on an island in the middle of nowhere and might not even be seeing the light of day.

 

Armstrong leers closer, raising a hand to him and Blore permits him to rest it on his shoulder this time, gently. Their gazes click together and the Doctor swallows before whispering, “Just for tonight, let me help you forget everything.”

 

Blore melts, and his eyelids flutter. He hasn’t had words spoken to him in such a way, for such a long time, certainly none that have mattered this deeply and rocked him so heavily to his core.

 

Armstrong grips him, and leans in to lock their lips once more.

 

This time, Blore allows it. He's not certain if he should staple the blame to the crack, the booze, or his own weakness, but he's allowing the Doctor’s firm calloused fingers to dig into the nape of his neck, and for those scathing lips to prod against his. He opens his mouth reluctantly to the adjoining taste of strong liquor.

 

William Blore is not a queer. He knew this on the first day he had ever felt an inclination for the male structure. As a professional and logical man, he is sure every man has the occasional inclination--no not that word-- _wonder_ about what it would be like to participate in such vile sodomitical acts, to know you're dabbling in the sort of soft play that earns you a one way ticket to the nick.

 

As Armstrong is lowering him down onto his back and pressing down, groin to groin, Blore sees sparks in his vision and he makes a noise between a groan and a sob. He scratches at the stiffer man’s forearms for purchase.

 

He is _not_ enjoying this. There is a natural physical response, of course, he can't help that, but he's consenting because of the drugs. They've gotten to his brain. He could tell Armstrong to stop at any minute, and Armstrong would be too buried within the wiles of the white powder’s intoxication to listen to him, Blore could guarantee it.

 

So he doesn't say no, instead he whispers, “Yes” like a mantra when Armstrong snakes a hand down to the tent in his pants. Blore is tearing up, feeling joyous streams down his cheeks to his neck and chin, but he blames it on his high. With the pleasure he's feeling, it can only be explained by the drugs, and the light-headed buzz he feels from the rum. He's flipping on his front only because Armstrong had forced him to, with a small nudge at his side with his other free hand.

 

Blore does _not_ press his ass up against the warm crotch of the masculine doctor behind him willingly, and moan. He does not whine when he feels Armstrong move away to rummage around in the bag he brought with him, and he does not gasp on relief when he feels his trousers and bloomers tugged down in one pull, and heavy fingers pressed against his entrance.

 

No, not willingly.

 

He hisses and bites his hand and for a sweet, nearly blissful, moment, Blore cannot hear the string of slurs and despotism soaring through his mind at the first press of a finger. For a glorious second he can imagine that this is acceptable, and perhaps even something he can indulge--

 

“I'm not hurting you, am I?” Armstrong’s shaky voice breaks Blore’s dazed requiem. He feels a stinging bitterness twist in his stomach and he shakes his head.

 

“Don't talk, you bugger,” he spits. Armstrong doesn't respond, but he crooks his fingers and Blore gasps again, and curls his fists in the sheets.

 

He wants to curse Armstrong out. How dare he seduce him to a pile of worthless shit? This sort of trickery would land any man in prison and here he is, fooling a detective into submitting to his reprehensible whims. Blore bites his lip when he feels the blunt head of what feels like a--

 

Blore shouts when he presses in, in one swift movement, down to the root. Suddenly his own sweltering hatred doesn't seem to matter and he's gripping the edges of the mattress before saying with gritted teeth, “Do’t hard.”

 

He closes his eyes feeling the first painful thrust, uneasy friction stirring his insides, followed by several more, but the pain and unbridled moments of pleasure are making him forget laws, and social expectations, social _responsibility_.

 

Which each thrust, an old memory flashes through his mind of his merciless foot driving its rough heel into the face of the young innocent boy, yes he was innocent, god of course he was. He wailed for him to stop, and Blore still kept going-- _thrust-_ -he stomped him-- _thrust_ \--he crushed his bones and watched the blood pour from the gaping wounds-- _thrust_ , “Fuck,” Blore shouts at the particularly sharp and unforgiving impetus.

 

When Armstrong reaches around and scratches his nails roughly down Blore’s chest, the crack of Landor’s ribs echoes in his mind, and when Blore moans uncontrollably, he can hear the child screech, begging for him to stop. God, Landor was just a boy, just wanted to satiate his own temptation--

 

“Harder!” Blore shouts. _Make me forget_ . And when the Doctor sets a brutal pace that has him grunting and grasping at the sheets, failing to take hold of anything with his sweat slick fingers, Blore realizes this act of buggery is the reason he bashed that kid’s face in like a rodent. He’s the same. Blore is the same vile, thing, _monster_ , he despises.

 

Because he’s enjoying the hell out of this, Armstrongs filthy moans and breath that is high in pitch against his ear. He enjoys the stretch of it, feeling torn open in every way. Blore can tell he’s close and he starts rocking back in time with his thrusts. It hurts, but he needs it like this.  This is the only way anything has ever satisfied William Blore.

 

He feels Armstrong coming in him and he grits his teeth, closes his eyes, and focuses solely on the firm hand wrapped around his cock, stroking him to completion as well.

 

For a few brief, wonderful, moments, Blore feels at peace, and he wants to lay down and smile and take in his surroundings while he’s still riding high on ecstasy and comfort, and a sweet sense of closure.

 

It doesn’t last long, the luxurious cloud in his head soon disappears, and he can hear Armstrong fumbling with the zipper of his pants, mumbling something about regret and idiotic mistakes. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Armstrong is making his way towards the door.

 

Blore pulls up his own trousers, and keeps his gaze fixed on the bed sheets they just made a mess of. Armstrong has stopped at the doorway, and he’s going to stay there until Blore faces him it seems. Fucking hell.

 

He finally does turn, begrudgingly.

 

“What?” He grumbles, wincing as he hauls himself up to dig around for a cigarette. Surely, he must have a few left over. Armstrong watches him, his manic glare deterring Blore slightly, from playing off what they just did. “You can go, Id’nt care. I ain’t fragile.”

 

“No, that’s not--” Armstrong clears his throat. “You won’t say anything about what just happened, will you?”

 

Blore raises a brow as he lights the cigarette now hanging from his teeth. When he inhales and releases, holding the stick between two fingers he replies, “The hell would I do that for?”

 

Armstrong sighs, chest heaving down with relief. Blore boils up as much apathy as his brain can muster and he inhales on the cigarette once more before adding, “If anyone were’t find out, we can blame it on the crack. Wouldn’t be far from th’ truth.”

 

The Doctor is rigidly silent, and then exits the room a few moments later without a response. For some reason, Blore feels a heavy guilt stirring in his gut. As if he needs more of that. He crushes his cigarette in the room’s ash tray and leaves the room to follow Armstrong who is already vanished from the hall. Perhaps he went back inside his own quarters.

 

He sighs shakily, and returns to his bed, sitting on the mattress away from the mess, hair muffed up and shirt haphazardly tucked back into his pants, and he remembers the entire memory vividly. Landor, and the holding cell, and the fucking rage that ensnared Blore’s mind tighter than his own internalized desire. Consumption of this bitterly driven anger towards himself, transfixing it onto another poor soul, was a way to insure he remains sane. Though it seems that he’s never been able to outrun his sin, not now, not ever.

 

He hears a door creak, distantly from the hall. Blore gets up cautiously, and presses an ear to his own door, not daring to open it and face Armstrong head on again. _Bugger,_ he thinks as he hears footsteps drifting towards the stairwell. He doesn’t waste another moment rushing through the door and quickening his pace towards the stairs, only getting halfway before he sees Armstrong leaving the house. Panic rises in him.

 

Damn him. _Fuck_ him. _Weak, traitorous prick,_ “Bastard!” he shouts out loud, and runs back up the steps, ignoring the twinge in his backside, stopping in front of Lombard’s room, slamming his fists against it. “Lombard! Lombard!” he shouts, and slams harder. He won’t allow Armstrong to get away, escape like a coward, he’s going to have to pay for what he’s done, what he forced Blore to do, just like Land-

 

“Hey!” A voice shouts from the end of the hall. So he was in Ms. Claythorne’s room after all. Of course he was. Blore hobbles over to the doorway where she enters as well, covering her breasts with a sheet. He tries not to draw too much attention to either of their states of undress, when she asks “What is it?”

 

Blore takes a breath, and realizes he could drop it right here and now. He could save Armstrong if he wanted to, go running to him now, and take him into his arms until he’s back in the safety of the house, if they even want to call it _safe_. No, that is not William Blore.

 

William Blore, takes, and he chews, and he spits the last bits of humanity from his own blotched soul, and he’s not going to stop now. More denial, more blaming it on the better man, more lies. “It’s him. It’s Armstrong!” he says fiercely, and then softer with a hint of remorse in his tone, until he crushes all remaining regret with his chilling accusations. “He’s left the house I saw him.” He points in the direction of the stairs.

 

There is blood thirsty glint in Lombard’s eyes that Blore can’t stomach, but he is prepared to follow him anyway, let him do all the work, watch him kill Armstrong no doubt. Lombard tells Ms. Claythorne to lock herself in her room, and he sets off towards the stairs.

 

It takes more than a few seconds for Blore to get his legs moving, and follow suit.

 

He feels sick, oh god, why does he feel sick.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this fucked up shit! I worked for a long while on this even though it might not seem like a lot. This show was insanely good and queercoded the hell out of Blore even though he is the worst, I thought I needed to write something canon compliant about the night they all got high. I feel like this could have easily happened. Always enjoy feedback! Thanks for reading.


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